


Memories

by SandrC



Category: Dungeons and Daddies (Podcast)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Barry Oak doesn't deserve his teeth, Barry Oaks sucks hot shit, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gaslighting, Henry takes a bath, and you will not change my mind on the matter, feral henry, henry is an elf and its just been hidden behind the door, post episode 38, the Geas spell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: In Oakvale, Barry Oak breaks his son. What remains of him tries to flee to go Home. And for him, Home is his wife.On Earth, Mercedes Oak-Garcia finds a terrified elf in her front yard. And he needs her help to remember who he used to be.(Or: Oops, All Angst)
Relationships: Henry Oak/Mercedes Oak-Garcia
Comments: 48
Kudos: 52





	1. The Wind Begins to Moan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FaultlessFinish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultlessFinish/gifts).



> Am I going to name every chapter using lyrics from Memories? Yes. Will I apologize? No. Memories is a good song. It makes me cry. Fuck off.
> 
> Long-time lurker, first time writer (on AO3 anyway). Shoutout to FaultlessFinish. I owed you a debt and this is me repaying it. I hope I will continue to ruin your day.
> 
> Anyway, elves have emotive ears and I will die here on this hill.

The smell of Oakvale is pervasive and stifling. Warm sun— _too_ warm, soft green light through leaves, _soporific_ —earth—not wet and growing, rot and cycle, but dry dust and cold stone—and greenery—petrichor _despite_ the beautiful and clear weather, cut grass on summer days, chlorophyll _without_ broken branches or crushed leaves—burns. It _burns_. Burns his lungs, his skin, his _heart_.

Hen can't _breathe_. He can't— _he can't_ — ** _he—!_** In his chest, his heart, his mouth dry, his body catches and clenches—he can hear, in his head, calming, _slow_ , Bar Ri'Oak calling for him to _breathe_ , in, out, but the burning hatred of being told what to do and need to run _to run **to—!**_

He can hear _someone_ —round shape, calm, nervous, a cycle of panic, dirt to blend but not from Oakvale, not from _here_ —call his name—not _his_ name, he's _Hen_ , they say _Henry_ , where is the last bit, the Oak? Who is this person?! But he doesn't hate _that_ voice—not like Bar Ri'Oak’s, which curls his insides and makes his fingers tense into claws and his ears pin back—and he wants to _help_ that voice but he is Not Safe and he needs to Be Safe and he needs to be Home and Home is— _Home is_ —

It’s not _Oakvale_. Oakvale is bars and _Bar_ and hurting and _he can’t breathe_ **_and_** —but Home is...a warm voice and soft face and hands that hold and help and **_he—_**

Hen reaches. He Reaches. Grabs the sides of the world and Dreaming and _Pulls_.

He wants to go Home.

So he Pulls. _Tears._ He is going Home. Away from here. From the hurting and the hands and _everything_ that he hates—insofar as _he_ hates _anything_ but—

He Pulls and everything goes _black_.

* * *

Ron Stampler is having what could be classified as a Very Bad Day. If he’s being _completely_ honest with himself, he’s been having a Very Bad Week. _Month?_ Time is hard to keep track of.

 _Still_ , from the whole fiasco with Willy and the other fathers—which he’s going to just bury in the box in the back of his head for a while, until it’s _his_ turn to deal with his issues and his Anchor—to _this_ whole revelation with Henry—which he, himself isn’t _actually_ sure what’s going on, but never let it be said that Ron F Stampler wasn’t willing to roll with the punches—Ron was having what can be quantifiably classified as A Very Bad Time. _Especially_ since Barry did something to Henry that made him... _different_. Like pieces of him were gone. A little like how the people here in Oakvale are. Blank. Weird.

 _Wrong_.

It makes his skin itch.

Or it _would_ , if he wasn’t seconds away from a solo combat encounter with a decidedly _not_ -calm Barry Oak.

When Henry—or whatever was Henry _after_ Barry did that thing with the magic and his words and _maybe_ just being a really bad father, but that’s a little beyond his comprehension right now—left, it was just Ron. Ron Stampler, by himself, no pants to hide in, no one to help him out. All he has is his business cards, that Barry appears to be visibly shaken by whatever the heck Henry just did, and the fact that he seems to have not even noticed Ron is even there.

Barry’s facade of kind fatherhood crumples, his face a rigid snarl—something more _animal_ than human or elf or _whatever_ it is that Barry and Henry _actually_ are—and he lashes out, scrabbling for where Henry had been. While he’s off-kilter, Ron makes a Decision.

_Ron runs._

He knows the others are out by the road, just south-ish—or what _passes_ for south in the Ron Stampler Compass of You Are Here—and he doesn’t have time to worry that _maybe_ they realized that this is some kind of trap or got captured or anything else. So he just tucks his chin and uses every bit of his speed to make his way back to where he last saw them.

Then he runs face-first into someone and falls clean on his ass.

“ _Fuck!_ ” Ron barks.

“ _Shit!_ ” The person he ran into echoes. It’s Glenn, rubbing his chest. Behind him are Darryl, Lark, Sparrow, and Paeden. All of them look concerned—save _Glenn_ , who rarely looks concerned but that’s _beside_ the point. All of them look _okay_ though. That's good.

Relief sweeps over Ron, settling liquid in his bones. It jellies his muscles and, for a brief moment, he forgets why he was running. Then he remembers.

“ _Henry!_ Barry was there!”

“ _We know!_ Some _bird_ told us!” Darryl says.

“Spoke English and _everything_ ,” Glenn adds. He looks _very_ nonplussed for a man who’s had a bird talk to him, but Glenn also seems to be quick to roll with the punches. Even for a man who shot at a bird with a gun. But, in Glenn’s defense, it wasn’t a bird. It was _Barry_. And he sucks. So that’s okay. Point and shoot.

“So we came to help Henry! Where _is_ he?”

“Gone.” He doesn’t _mean_ to be callous but...it’s easier to speak plainly. He’s less likely to lose his words than if he thinks about what he’s going to say first. Samantha always said his brain was like a colander and he needed to spoon the thought-soup out faster than it could slip through the holes. So speaking first and thinking second _always_ served him well. “Barry did _something_ to him and he...freaked out and just...did some magic thing and _disappeared_. Gone.” He splayed his fingers out, imitating an explosion or a puff of smoke but..it was closer to a heat-haze. Just a ripple of magic and then... _nothing_. Dropped the stomach out of him.

“He’s... _gone?_ ” Darryl’s voice cracks. Behind him, Ron can see the twins exchange looks, their brows furrowed in a strange manner. He’s never seen them look like that before. _Worried_. They’re usually more carefree. That look is better suited for Terry or Grant—as awful as that thought is.

“Where did he _go_? What did he _do_?” Glenn pushes. Ron shrugs.

“ _I don’t know_.”

“Is he okay?” Darryl asks.

“He didn’t _seem_ okay before he ran.” Discomfort swirls in his gut, deep and sour.

“Does that mean...he _left_ us?” Lark—or is it Sparrow? Ron always has a hard time telling them apart—asks. He sounds subdued. _Concerned_. He reaches out to his brother and grabs his hand. Ron watches them press their tattooed forearms against each other's.

He doesn’t have a good answer for them.

His confused silence is answer enough.

* * *

Mercedes trusts her husband. She loves her husband. She believes in her husband and his cause and his skills. So when she got a phone call from Carol Wilson saying she just got off the phone with their husbands—not _just_ her Darryl, but also Henry and Ron and _probably_ Glenn was there as well, though Carol didn’t have anything to say about him _specifically_ —and that they sounded _distressed_ —something about time travel and a funeral and a pyramid—and that was enough to put her off being at work for a little bit. It’s not as if she doesn’t love her job—she _does_ , very much so—but there are more important things than her job at the moment.

Like her husband. And her sons.

And the niggling feeling in the back of her head that’s telling her she _really_ needs to be home right now.

If there’s _one thing_ Mercedes Oak-Garcia knows about life, it’s that she needs to trust her instincts. They’ve never led her wrong once. Even led her to her husband, way back when.

So she walks home, as she _always_ does, thinking cyclical thoughts. Idealizing her future. Counting her breaths. Thinking about seeing her husband and children home, safe, happy. Counting her steps.

Just as she gets home—thoughts in her head about Henry, her sons, about the sun, the birds, _anything_ to keep the panic from settling in her bones—she hears something. No, not _just_ hears, feels. Like someone taking one of her more sturdy dresses, clenching it in both of their hands, and pulling it in two. A low bass noise—standing next to a speaker, low enough that it reverberates in her collarbone, plays windchimes with her ribs, rattles her teeth—and _then_...there is a flash of color—more colors than she’s ever known _could_ have existed and it _hurts_ to think about them, to look at them, to conceptualize these colors, if they can even be _called_ that—and someone collapses in front of her.

There is _no_ hesitation. She dashes forward, on her knees in their front yard, hands outstretched. She’s not touching this person—you _don’t_ touch someone who might be in shock—but she _is_ hovering. They’ve curled in on themself, knees pressed against their chest, shaking slightly. Pale skin, blonde hair—fluffy and wild, unkempt and around their neck in a wild mane—fingernails almost like claws digging into their arms, drawing blood. And, barely visible in the mess of their hair, their ears—long, rounded, like a rabbit’s without the fur—press flat against their head.

“Are you okay? Do you need assistance? _¿Hablas inglés o español?_ ” Low, quiet, like when she found Henry. _Careful_. Enunciating.

The person shifts beneath her, whimpering slightly, and she draws back to give them space. They uncurl, pulling their pale, almost burlap robes away from their skin like it’s causing them discomfort. And as they unfurl, like a plant searching for the sun, Mercedes draws back in shock and horror. She would recognize this person anywhere.

“Oh, _mi león_ , what _happened_ to you?”

Henry, almost no recognition in his bright eyes, reaches out to her, seeking some form of comfort, and she envelops him in a hug.


	2. I Must Think of a New Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hen is Home. Mercedes makes some phone calls. The author makes a bad dad joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't half-ass anything do I? Sat down, planned this chapter out in six digestible chunks, started writing, got to 1.5K midway through chunk one, realized I'd done it again haha
> 
> Anyway, hey hi hello. Welcome to chapter two. I have some emotional crimes I'm about to commit.
> 
> This fic gradually shifted from "amnesiac feral Henry" to "moderately brain-scrambled compliant Henry" and I'm not sorry. It's worse this way. Trust me.
> 
> Anyway, if Lark and Sparrow seem OOC consider these facts: my house now, they've experienced some heavy trauma with Henry having disappeared, because I said so, canon is a lie.
> 
> Lark is a Seeker warlock (his patron is Hildy haha) and Sparrow is a Fae Walker ranger (who eventually classes into unity cleric but not yet).
> 
> Is Mercedes also OOC? Probably but we don't have enough of her to tell so, again, my house now. My wife now. Henry can share.
> 
> Hope y'all like it.

Hen wakes up in a warm place. He can hear—breathing soft, heartbeat loud— _someone_ talking. It's not Elvish. It's not Druidic. They're speaking... _Common_ maybe? Or something _close_ to Common. They sound concerned. For a moment his mind skip-stutters sideways and he thinks that the smells, the sounds, the light isn't home, but the _voice_ is Home. He pulls his robes away from his skin—it itches, _burns_ almost, and he has _always_ hated the feeling of them but Bar never listened because he was a cub, a child, a baby—and curls in closer to himself for a moment. Gathers his thoughts.

If this _is_ an enemy— _it isn't_ , the Voice Behind the Door insists, _preciosa, my lioness_ —then he will strike. His magic feels dull and warped but his claws are sharp enough to draw blood from his arms and his teeth are strong enough to take something's throat out. He doesn't _want_ to— _not her, **never** her_, the Voice cries in protest, muffled by the solid oak of the Door—but he _will_. Safety. Home.

Hen unfurls, slowly. _Softly_. A predator will not strike if he is slow. _Careful_.

Kneeling close to him, half-pants stained green by crushed imperfect grass, is a woman. Her arms are out—comfort? concern? fear? _for_ or _of_ Hen?—and she is speaking low and slow, a clunky and almost _broken_ mix of Common and Elvish back and forth.

" _Do you speak english or spanish?_ " She asks. He has no context for those last two words but they must be Important. She stresses them like they are.

Hen looks at her—framed in the sun, a halo behind her head, like an angel or a saviour or maybe something _more_ —and his heart skip-stutters sideways, beating into his throat. His ears relax—Bar always said he couldn't even hide his emotions, at his age, a _disgrace_ that he's so easily read—and he reaches out to her because _this_? This is Home.

 _Mercedes_ , his heart sings, _Mercedes. Mi corazón. My heart._

She whimpers and Hen's ears pin back as she lets out a soft whispered, " _My lion, what happened?_ " But she hugs him and he buries himself in her arms.

Home. _Home_. This is Home. This is safety. Hen sinks into her embrace and drinks in every aspect of her. His most precious person. He can feel her shake in his grasp but he doesn't want to let go. This is where he wanted to be.

" _Henry_ ," she says and his ear flicks, tickled by wispy hairs and mumbling breath into his shoulder, " _Henry_." She says that like it's a prayer, a plea, and Hen is confused again because he _isn't_ Henry, but the round, soft, owl one— _Ron_ , the Voice supplies, and it _must_ be right, Ron feels _right_ for that voice, that face, that feeling—called him Henry too so do they know him as Henry?

" _Mercedes_ ," he replies, the word choking his throat. It's not Druidic and his tongue refuses to hold the shapes right. Bar had told him that it's appropriation, that it's Not Allowed, that he's only to speak Druidic, so he _can't_. Even if he wants to, he _can't_. "Apologies. Apologies." The Druidic is easier, a balm, soothing. "Lioness," he says in Druidic, the Voice keening hornets in his brain, stifled, muffled, pained.

" _Henry!_ " She cries and he clutches her close. Safe. Home. She isn't happy and he can't—he _wants_ to but Leave Behind Everything and Bar Told Hen that he needed to Go Back, Be Hen, Be Good—so he clutches at her clothes and doesn't want to let go. Eventually though—Consent, Ask First, Be Polite, Do As You're Told—he lets go and she pulls back and the smile she wears is wobbly and _wrong_.

She doesn't have ears like Hen and the rest of the Ri'Oak commune do but he _knows_. He Knows she is Sad.

"Please," he asks, hand hovering out towards her face, but he cannot touch unless she says he can—Consent, Ask, and he Knows she cannot understand Druidic because she looks _so sad_ when he _does_ talk—"apologies. _Please_ stop. Stop crying, please."

She scrubs at her face and sighs. " _Right. Right_." Standing up she offers her hand. " _Can you stand? Are you hurting?_ "

He shakes his head and takes her hand, letting her pull him to his feet. His legs shake, buckling under his weight, and he remembers what he did. Pulling. Tearing. How hard that is _normally_ , moreso when Bar told him to Stay. His body _aches_ for the effort. His ears slam flat against his head and he whimpers, clutching to her.

" _Ah_ ," she starts, grabbing him so he doesn't fall. She's strong, holding him by his waist, his elbow, and he can feel the callouses on her hands and her muscles under his careful hands. " _I have you. Don't worry. Let's go inside. Get you fed."_

She is his lifeline. Hen clutches to her as tight as he can without his claws catching her skin and spilling her blood. His own blood is metallic and taints the soft dry smell of dirt and grass and real trees—no imitations, the same thing over and over again, but a strong oak with strips of bark missing and smaller willows and shrubs and crabgrass and a bunch of grasses and flowers and, out back he can smell and feel and hear flowers and fruits and foods and he wants to _cry_ at the _variety_ —and he wants to bottle it all up and keep it close, just for him. A selfish treat. Not for the Ri'Oak commune but for _Hen_ , who is a selfish brat and should be taught otherwise.

They go inside the house. _His_ house? Hers, _definitely_ but _his also_? He feels Home here, but maybe it’s just her. Regardless, Mercedes sits him down on a chair at a table. She walks to a basin and water gushes forth, to Hen's surprise. _Magic_? No, not magic. Magic here is dull and hard. He has to push too much just to feel his own magic. They couldn't have magic like that. Something else to pull a river into a basin. Something _interesting_.

She catches him looking at the basin and turns it off with her elbow, drying her hands on a towel. " _Are you hungry? You look hungry_."

 _Is_ he? It would be Rude to say no. Rude is Bad. He's not supposed to be Rude. He nods his head. His ears are pinafore flags, out wide, telling everyone of his surprise and anxiety. Can she read his ears, he wonders? Can she understand them?

Mercedes—merciful, _beautiful_ , graceful Mercedes—pulls something out of a large storage box—it _hums_ when she opens it, a song of cold and light, similar to the hum of the strange lights above his head but _different_ , though she doesn't seem to hear them—and opens it up. She sniffs it and, even from here he can smell spices and citrus, grabs a spoon for him, and sits down in front of him, pushing the bowl and spoon his way. It's made of metal and he pokes it with a finger.

Is he Allowed to eat with metal? Is it okay? Hen looks up at her and he is certain then that she can read his ears. Her face is sad, more sad than it should _ever_ be. He decides then to eat, even if metal is Not Allowed. _But first..._

Bar didn't say he _couldn't_ check his food. Didn't _say_ that Wasn't Allowed when he set the Rules. Quickly, Hen pats himself down. Even if Bar took his focus, he wouldn't have found his components. Hen was smart and sewed some into pockets on his person. _There_ , in the sleeve of his robe, is the yew leaf he needs. He lets out a breath, ears slackening, and focuses; pulls at the threads and strands of his muddy magic and weaves it into a net. As the soft green of his magic forms—stuttering and shaking, the barrier of this world keeping it from being _better_ or _stronger_ , keeping the source of magic further from his grasp—he drags the net through the cold, red soup, coming up with nothing.

It's safe.

( _Why would Mercedes hurt me? Why would she put something in my food?_ The Voice howls, indignant. _She loves me!_ )

( _Because so does Bar,_ Hen thinks back.)

He digs in.

The soup, despite being cold, is fragrant and bright. _Zingy_. Citrus notes, sharp cilantro, peppers. It's filling in a way that Hen is surprised by and he digs in with more veracity than Manners Allow. His fingers clench and tense, sending a shock up his arm, and he slows down, stopping to make eye contact with Mercedes.

" _What happened?_ " She asks in that muddled mix of Common and Elvish. " _You...what **happened** to you and our boys? Carol said you sounded so **terrified** when she talked to you and...my lion, you look...where are the others?_"

Hen feels a sharp pain in his chest. Empathy? Sorrow? He swallows the soup in his mouth and sets the spoon down, ears tilted submissive. _Sorry_ , his ears say. _I'm sorry I hurt you._

"They...," he starts in Druidic, the feeling having returned to his fingers a sharp warning to Obey, "taken. Bar Ri'Oak...he...I...apologies. _Apologies_. I ran."

" _Barry?_ " Mercedes says his father's name the same strange way she says his, like that's the Common or Elvish variation on a theme. " _Your **father** , Barry? What happened to them, Henry?!"_

"Apologies!" He cries in Druidic, ears pinned flat. He isn't making eye contact but that isn't Not Allowed. "I can't...Mercedes," he feels like he's butchering her name when he says it in Druidic, like there are sounds that shouldn't be that are and sounds that should be that aren't, but he can’t _not_ say it in Druidic. "I ran, apologies, but _I ran_. They aren't...I don't know." He doesn't know how else to tell her without breaking the Rules.

" _It's—_ " she holds her hands up, defeated. He wants to reach her and hold her and tell her he's sorry— _apologize, apologize, apologize_ his heartbeat begs, and the Voice Behind the Door is crying—" _ **eat**. Eat and then rest. We will talk later. Don’t worry for now. **Just.**..eat.”_

Hen doesn’t need ears to tell she’s tired. No, not tired, _Tired_. The type that sucks your soul out and leaves you limp. Like when you’re out of spell slots or the sun has been gone for too long. His ears fall and he picks up the spoon and eats. Even the sharp soup tastes less. But he is Good. He is Good and eats and it is good food. He makes a soft noise of appreciation and sets his spoon in the bowl. Then, because helping is Good, he waves his hand over the bowl and Shapes the small remainders of the soup up to above the bowl, then Shapes it into ice and pops it into his mouth. No more left.

Mercedes is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. He tilts his head, ears fanned, and frowns. She frowns back, thoughtful. _Oh_. Right.

“I’m grateful,” he says, “the food was delicious. Sustaining. I’m very grateful for your hard work.” He doesn’t say her name. He feels _wrong_ saying it like that. Druidic makes her name sound... _off_ and he hates it—him _and_ the Voice—so he just _doesn’t_. Instead he bows, a slight incline of his head, ears neutral-submissive, and smiles. Beatific. Like Bar taught him. _Polite_.

“ ** _I—_** ” she sits there, mouth open. Did he do wrong? Did he do her a disservice? Did she _want_ to clean? His ears slowly lower but she reaches out and grabs his hand. He starts, clutching his fingers curled so he doesn’t cut her palm with his claws. “ _No, **no**. You’re fine. You’re safe. **Calm**_.”

He takes a deep breath through his nose, slow, like he’s been told, exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s supposed to do. Safe. Calm. He’s not in Oakvale. He’s here. Home. _With her._

As he breathes, he finds his body relaxing. Not _just_ the stress of escaping, but using magic that strong to escape and _also_ using magic, here, when he already didn’t have any energy. The cantrip was fine but...Detect Poison and Disease was too much and his body, now that he had food and wasn’t panicking or worrying for his life, was _begging_ for rest. He needed to trance. Get his thoughts in order.

He Knows, the Voice Behind the Door assisting, _where_ to sleep but...he doesn’t feel like it. He doesn’t feel like he’s _earned_ that. Instead, he tilts his head to another room, where softer chairs are, and indicates with his ears. “May I rest here?”

Mercedes locks eyes with him and frowns, like she’s parsing him out. She seems to roll his words around in her head—does she understand him? does she know what he’s saying? can she speak Druidic?—!nd then nods. “ _Do what you need to. I’ll be here. I think..I have to make a call._ ”

Hen smiles, ears up. _There_. She seems at least _relieved_. He nods at her and stands, pushing the chair in, and heads to the other room—the one with the soft chair—and curls up in it. The chair is a soft cushion on a wicker stand, the whole of it shaped like a bird’s nest. It’s warm and smells like dog. His ear twitches slightly as he settles down and breathes, slow, low, and starts to try and trance. Like it always does, it comes easily to him, without the anxiety of being awake. It’s his _favorite_ part of the day.

( _Not always_ , the Voice says, dulling as the trance sweeps over everything. _You used to love being here, awake, with her. Don’t forget that._ )

But he is already gone.

* * *

Mercedes would consider herself a fairly rational person. _Granted_ , she believes in some fanciful things—one could say that healing crystals and magic were not _rational_ , per se—but she was someone who liked having _some_ type of consistency in her life. In the short day or so since her husband first called her about their ill-fated trip to what _should_ have been a soccer game, she had her entire world pulled out from under her.

Their sons were _kidnapped_. Her husband was, at one point in _life-threatening_ danger. And _now_ —? _Now_ he was in their sitting room, curled up like some kind of animal, unable to speak to her—though he seemed to _understand_ her well enough to comply with her wishes and nod or shake his head accordingly—and he looked... _he looked_...

He didn’t look _human_.

To _his_ defense, he hadn’t looked human when she _first_ met him, filthy and wandering the woods without an idea of _who_ he was or _what_ he was doing—which _really_ should have been clue number one to something going on but, never let it be said that Mercedes Oak-Garcia wasn’t a sucker for a pretty face, _even if_ it was caked in mud—but she had chalked that up to minor dehydration and malnutrition. His poor ribs had been sticking out and the tattered sack of a shirt he had been wearing was completely soaked through with sweat and covered in dried salt. And by the time the hospital cleaned him off, the hair she had originally thought was a deep amber color was _actually_ a light platinum blonde.

But that was _then_! Before this whole... _rigmarole_ with their sons! Now _he_ was here while Lark and Sparrow were— _they were_ —!

 _Oh_. She was hyperventilating. That was...not _great_ , considering.

She needs to distract herself from the current situation. Organize her thoughts. With a shaky breath, Mercedes stands up, shoots a glance aside at Henry—still curled up in the papasan chair, still sleeping, ears twitching like a cat’s—and steps outside to make a phone call.

_Carol is level-headed. She'll know what to do._

" _Carol Wilson, how can I help you?_ " Professional, Carol's voice rings clear across the phone line. Mercedes smiles, bitterly.

" _Hey_ , Carol, it's Mercedes."

" ** _Oh!_** " On the other side, she can hear Carol shift something about and set something down on a flat surface with a heavy thud. " _Have you heard anything? No one's called me yet._ "

" _Actually_ , that's why I'm calling you. I... _Henry's here_." She's keeping her breathing even as she talks. Even though she kept herself _so together_ for Henry, she can _feel_ the tremors in her fingertips that indicate that she's seconds away from a panic attack. " _You_...you and Samantha...I could use your help."

The silence _screams_. Mercedes can only imagine Carol tapping her foot, pacing as she thinks. From what she can remember of what few PTA meetings she attended, Carol was by far the more _stern_ of the Wilsons—though that's not necessarily a _bad_ thing. Darryl is enthusiastic in the way that someone is when they're burying their feelings beneath _stronger_ feelings, but Carol is a well-schooled mask of professionalism.

" _ **Just** Henry?_" Clipped. _Yeah_ , that's fair.

"Yes. _Just_ Henry. And he's not doing good."

" _Did he tell you what was wrong?_ " Thank any and _all_ greater power for Carol Wilson. Straight to the point.

"He...I don't think he _could_. He seemed to _understand_ me just fine but...he couldn't talk back? Or he _could_ , but only using _this_...the twins had a language when they were younger and he's...it's _that_. Whatever he's speaking, it's not any language _I_ know." Henry, _her_ Henry, green eyes staring at her like he wants to take her tears away, butchering her name as he says things in a lyrical way she doesn't understand. Ears—long and rounded, emotive, like a baby deer's but also _not_ —giving away more than his words _ever_ could. Pinned back in fear or concern, gently sloping to indicate he wasn't a threat, quivering slightly as he happily ate the gazpacho. " _I'm_ —Carol, I don't know what to do."

" _Are you **certain** this is Henry? I know I didn't entertain the idea to begin with but, if our husbands are dealing with magic or extradimensional travel or **aliens** , maybe whatever you have **isn't him**._"

Soft hands weaving light into a pale green net that he drags through a bowl of soup, ears back but still. An inclined bow, just his head, as he says something that sounds like he's thanking her. Head tilted at the living room, ears up, asking her something she can't answer. Always waiting on her first, never acting on his own.

 _Is_ that Henry? Her instincts say _yes_ but...

"And if it _isn't_? He doesn't seem to be able to speak any language I know. Communication between us is limited." She's not going to _deny_ the possibility, but she _hopes_. She misses her husband.

" _If he seems content sticking around, **keep** him around. If he **isn't** Henry, the least we can do is pump him for information_." She can hear the clatter of keys through the phone and the sound of a door being locked. " _Anyway, I'm going to call Samantha, probably pick her up, and we're going to head your way. Try calling his phone in the meantime. He wouldn't **not** have it on him, from what I heard. **Be careful** , Mercedes_."

"You too," she says without thinking.

" _Call me if anything goes poorly. I'll bring something to defend ourselves with._ "

"I don't think that'll be necessary."

" ** _Just in case_** ," she asserts. Mercedes smiles. It's her way of showing she cares.

"If you say so. Drive safe."

" _See you soon_." And Carol hangs up.

Mercedes listens to the dial tone for a bit before hanging up as well.

The problem is that Carol _isn't wrong_. Whoever is sleeping in her house right now? That could _easily_ not be Henry, but an imposter. From what he had told her of the realm they found themselves in, magic was as common as breathing and people could disguise themselves as other people with little issue.

Whoever he is, he could as easily be her husband as _not_.

She takes a deep breath and exhales.

(She's been doing that a lot in the past twenty four hours. More than when the twins were two. What a _disaster._ )

Opening her contacts, she pulls up Henry's number and dials, cradling the phone against her cheek. It rings once, _twice, **thrice—**_

" _I'm sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is out of service. Please hang up and try again._ "

 _Oh_.

Almost frantically, she dials the next number she can think of. Ron Stampler—Samantha's husband and Terry's stepdad. Once, _twice, **thrice—**_

" _I'm sorry, but the number you are trying to reach is out of service. Please hang up and try again_."

It's been a long time since she's had a _genuine_ panic attack and now, in so many hours, she's verging on her second one of the day. It's not an enjoyable feeling, _that's_ for sure.

Glenn Close. He's Nick's father. Lark and Sparrow bought a butterfly knife off of him once and then gutted one of the beanbag chairs. She's yet to find the actual weapon. Once, _twice, **thrice—**_

" _I'm sorry—_ " She hangs up before the automated message even reaches the midway point. Her ears are ringing. _She **can't**_ —she's having trouble breathing and—breathe. In, _hold_ , out. In, _hold_ , out.

She knows she needs to be calm but it's _so difficult_ right now.

Darryl is the last one she's going to try before she calls her boys. She'd rather Lark and Sparrow _not_ be the ones to confirm that the man she has is or is not their father but...it's starting to look like none of the adults know phone etiquette.

Once, _twice, **thrice—**_

" _You've reached the voicemail of Darryl Wilson. I'm sorry I can't come to the phone right now but if you could leave me your name and number, I'll get back to you as soon as possible_."

It's strange how _relieving_ a voicemail message can be. It means she has someone she can call, _even if_ he won't pick up all the time.

Mercedes wipes the tears from her eyes and shifts how she's holding the phone. " _Hey_ Darryl, it's Mercedes Oak-Garcia. I was just calling to check up on everyone. Call me when you get a chance okay? My number is—" she rattles off her cell number and finishes her message, "—tell my boys I love them. _Be safe_." Then she hangs up.

 _One_. One of _four_. Henry's phone is probably gone—he must've forgotten to take the portable battery and charging cord again. Glenn might have lost his. Ron might've broken his. But Darryl's phone is still okay. That's _something_.

It's not _much_ , but it's _something_.

She takes a series of shuddering, broken gasps, and steels herself.

 _Are you willing to hear what they have to say? Are you willing to accept that this man in your house is Henry? Are you willing to have your fears realized?_ She asks herself as she breathes slowly to lower her heartrate. She needs to be _calm_ when she talks to them. They're probably scared or worried. She breathes, _deep_ , and dials their shared phone.

Once, _twice, **thrice**_ —her heart catches hard in her throat. A whining starts in her ears. Breathe. _Breathe!_

" _Mom?_ "

 _It's Lark_. Mercedes lets out a choked laugh. Relief floods her veins.

" _Hey_ ," she manages before her throat closes around the words. She tries again. "Hey, _cariño_. Is your brother there?"

" _Yeah_." He's so _quiet_. He's _so_ quiet. Her motherly instincts _scream_ that him being so quiet means _danger_. She grits her teeth around the fear and swallows heavily. " _Yeah, he's here. Actually, mom? Can we...can you give us a second to get somewhere more **private**?_" She hears him ask Sparrow something, barely inaudible, and a crackling noise fuzzes out the audio from them for a moment. It fades and she hears the shift to speaker. " _Mom? We're somewhere quieter now_."

" _Oh_." She hadn't thought about what to do now that she was here. Less so with how slow and soft Lark was talking. It's so _different_ from the sharp, rambunctious son who she saw off. " _Uh_ , I was wondering...how long has it been for you? Your father said that time was different over there and I don't know how—"

" _Not sure_ ," Lark cuts her off. She bites her tongue at the surprise that rips through her nerves, stealing feeling from her fingers. " _It's hard to tell._ "

" _Mom, **why** did you call? **It's** —it's not like we don't **miss** you or anything but—_" Sparrow sounds like he's talking around his heart too, the words catching and clawing as he tries to make them do what he wants. He's too young to deal with this.

"Where's your father? Is he _there_? I just—I want to...I'm _worried_. I don't know how _any_ of this works and I want to trust him but... _I'm worried_."

" _Father is...he's **been** gone. He **left**."_ The venom in Lark's voice hurts.

" _Wh-when_?"

" _We don't know. **Probably** a week? We've slept **about** a week's worth since then_," Sparrow supplies. He sounds less angry than Lark and...that hurts too, in it's _own_ way. " _Ron said that **his** father did something to him and he just... **left**. With **magic** , probably. Did he tell you he's magic? Coz he is. We **all** are_."

" _Hildy says he left this plane. Same as he did **last** time_." There's the sound of flesh hitting flesh and Lark yelps. " _ **What?!** I told you that already! I don't know why you won't—_"

"He... _plane?_ Like he came home?" _There_. A thread of hope. "This...Hildy says he came _home_?"

" _She was vague!_ " Lark says. " _She always is but she said something about 'like the last time he showed up, unannounced' and 'poor thing, heading home' but, fuck me if I know what **that** means._"

" _Who_ —" _no_ , that's not important. "I think...he's _here_. I think he's here _with me_."

She can hear them lean closer to their phone, bated breath, begging eyes. " _He's **there?!** How long?_"

"Less than a day. He's...he's in a _bad_ way. I don't...I could _barely_ tell it was him. He _knew_ me," she says, reassuring _who_? She doesn't know. Her, her sons, _it doesn't matter_. Some kind of assurance. "He knew me but he's not _all there_. He doesn't seem able to speak right?"

" _He has, **uh** , elf ears, right?_" Lark asks.

" _ **Of course** he has elf ears, it's **him**_ ," Sparrow hisses.

" _We **don't** know that! I'm **just checking**. We can't trust **anything**. No matter **how** much we want to_." Lark's biting response is _worse_ , somehow, than Sparrow's acceptance that, _of course_ that's their dad.

" _Yes?_ How did you—"

" _Does he have **any** identifying marks on him? Anything that would be a way to **wholly** identify him?_" Lark pushes. " _He didn't have his glasses, **did** he? What was he wearing? Did he know your name?_"

The onslaught of questions is surprising. Considering how much time has passed for them, _of course_ they wouldn't trust her. She doesn't trust her own instinct either. Of course they'd be worried. _Still..._

"Why does that _matter_?" She asks, unbidden.

" _Because the commune father comes from is **full** of people who look like him. Not **exactly** , but I wouldn't put it past **his** father to send someone to you so you didn't bother looking!_" Oh. _Oh_. She can hear the tears in his eyes. She can hear his hands shaking. " _Because Hildy **doesn't know** —she **can't** look that far out or be that **focused** —and Darryl and Ron and Glenn are all **losing their shit** all the time and because I'm **scared** , mom."_

"Lark," she starts, but Sparrow cuts her off to add on to his panicked admission.

" _We just...it's **scary**. Not the good type. **We**...I mean, I still **try** to be kind and nice but things here— **people** here—they don't **care** about autonomy or free will and we've had a lot of close calls._" He sniffles. In the back she can hear Lark attacking a tree with what sounds like some kind of weapon, dull metallic thuds against wood. " _We don't want **you** to be in danger too. We've been **trying** to be good and be strong but...it's different from trying to summon an eldritch god to kill in glorious combat. Father's **missing** and no one knows what's happened to him. And then he shows up with you? It could be...it could be **anything**_."

She takes a breath. For them, for her, it doesn't matter. She takes a breath and exhales. " _He knew my name_. Didn't say it right but it was _my name_. And the language he is speaking, it's _familiar_. He used to talk in it when he had bad nightmares. Before you two were born. And after that, you two had that as your secret twin language for _so long_ that we thought you'd _never_ pick up another one. You didn't _need_ it so long as you have each other." She takes another shuddering breath, presses tears from her eyes. "Is that enough proof? Is that _safe_?"

They're silent for a moment and Mercedes thinks that maybe they got attacked or hurt _or_ —but then the phone shifts.

" _It's not just **our** language, mom. It's what **he** spoke here. It's an actual **language**_."

" _Do you remember **any** of it?_" Sparrow asks. " _Words, phrases, syntax? **Anything** that could help you? It's...from what **we** understand, it's a **hard** language to learn. The only people that know it are **druids** , like father and **his** father. And **us**_."

"You _aren't_ druids?" It's a strange distinction to make, but it must be important.

" _No. I mean, not by like... **class?**_ " She can hear Sparrow turn to Lark. The phone changes hands.

" _Don't worry about that_ ," he says. " _Just...keep father safe. Help him get stronger. If he made it back the **first** time, he can do it again. He's **very** powerful._" She can hear Lark grin, all teeth and pride.

" _What he did is **powerful** magic and...Earth isn't **as** magic as here so it may take him a while to be strong enough to come back_."

" _But **it doesn't matter**. He's gonna come back and he's gonna **kill** his father and **find** his Anchor and then we're gonna come home and we're gonna be **so cool** coz, mom, I can do **magic** now_."

" _I—_ " does she focus on the light at the end of the tunnel? The eventual? The possibility that they'll come home and be safe, however long that is for them? Or does she focus on the worries of now? "Do you know _what_ Barry did to him?"

Her boys audibly grimace.

" _No clue_ ," Sparrow says. " _He does **a** **lot** with mind stuff? Being condescending and pretending that **he's** in the right? Like those people who break bee boxes because it's animal cruelty? But **worse**. With people_."

" _I could ask Hildy later, now that we know he's okay. **Or** , okay- **ish**. But she might know. She knows **a lot**_." Lark pauses and she can hear him chewing on his thumbnail. " _But it's **probably** bad_."

" _It **sucks** here_," Sparrow declares.

" _It **sucks hot shit** here. I can see why father left,_" Lark adds.

" _Magic_ notwithstanding?" She probes, a soft, natural smile finally breaking free.

" _Even **with** the magic_," Sparrow snorts.

" _I'd rather **burn the place to the ground** ,_" Lark says through his teeth.

" _I think father would let you!_ "

" _I think he would **help**_."

" ** _Fuck Oakvale!_** "

" _Cariños_ ," she says, whipcrack commanding. They stop talking so she continues, " _promise me._ Promise me you'll be safe, _okay_? No matter what, _be safe_. Take care of each other."

" ** _Promise_**."

" ** _Mmhmm_**."

"I'm going to try and help your father but...if _anything_ changes, let me know. Call me. It doesn't matter when. And leave a message."

" _Will do_." If their obedience is shocking, it's dulled by the fear that swallows everything else in it's way.

"I love you both _so_ much," she almost sobs.

" _Love you too_ ," they reply in unison.

" _Please_ be safe," she begs one final time.

" _We'll **try**_." And the line goes dead.

Mercedes Oak-Garcia sits on her front stoop and _cries_ , the weight of the whole day finally crushing the last of her resistance from her lungs. She can't pretend any longer. _It hurts_.

Her boys sounded _so_ _different_. Not _just_ in their mannerisms—that was to be expected; they weren't going to be identical forever—but in their _age_. They sounded like they were _older_ , with the weight that comes from age, and like the thought of killing another man wasn't just some kind of childish goal—they were little hellions and, while she loved them, there was _always_ a line toed that she would have prevented them from crossing—but _something they've done_. Multiple times. _Consciously_ choosing to do so and also to do so with _no remorse_.

His father did _something_. Henry—or _whatever_ remained inside of him—had called him by name. When she had asked him what happened, he had said Barry's name. Or _that language's_ version of Barry's name. It had a glottal stop between syllables and the Oak was slapped on the end like an afterthought. _Bar Ri'Oak._

 _Whatever_ he had done had...the man who's sleeping in their living room _is_ Henry and he _isn't_. He's missing his fight, missing his spark.

Lark and Sparrow seemed okay with the idea of him having... _elf ears_? Like he's _supposed_ to have them and just _didn't_ for the longest time. Like that's the norm for his commune. Like he never was actually _human_.

 _Magic_...a soft net of green light combing through the soup as Henry watches, expectantly. A wave of his hand and the droplets of soup he can't get out hover above the bowl, freeze solid, and he eats them like ice chips.

It isn't _too_ far-fetched to believe in that brand of magic. To see it enacted in front of her is...startling _but_...

She's more worried about his _mind_ than she is _her own comfort_.

As the last remnants of her breakdown pass, wracking her body in shivering hiccups and soft snuffling, she catches the sound of a car pulling into her driveway. She lifts her head to see Samantha gently get out of the front passenger side door and start towards her. Behind her, throwing her keys into her purse, Carol slams her door shut and wheels about to catch Mercedes's eye.

" _Oh_ ," she says. All the frustration and fury melts from her expression and she takes long strides to catch up to Samantha, who covers a _lot_ of ground for a woman her size. " _Mercedes_."

" _It's okay_ ," she waves a hand at them. Neither of them buy it but it's a social nicety. "Just got off the phone with my boys."

"Are they _okay_? Did they know if that is—?" Carol jerks her thumb at her front door. Mercedes lets out a bitter laugh, but her smile is sincere.

She just doesn't _feel_ like laughing.

"That's him. Or, they _think_ it is. I—" From behind the front door, she can hear something clatter and a panicked animal noise. _Oh_. Earth and Sky and Laserwolf Fartblaster! Henry must have woken up and startled them. Or _they_ startled _him_. Hard to figure that out without a visual picture. "Hold that thought." Before either of the other women could say a word, she threw her front door open and shouted, commanding, " _T_ _hat's enough_!"

The large mountain lion that is standing in her living room meets her eyes, their green gaze unwavering, but they do stop what they were doing. They maintain eye contact and slowly, carefully, sit down and yowl, as if they're asking her to continue.

" _Why the **fuck** is there a **cougar** in your house?_" Carol hisses.

"That's no cougar," Mercedes says evenly, carefully, hands outstretched, "that's my _husband_."


	3. She is Smiling Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lark makes a Pact. Hen fixes what he broke. Mercedes makes a plan. A hard truth comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, once again, overachieving. Ah well, my lot in life.
> 
> I have made the moms people haha. If they don't have a canon personality, then its fucking my house now, Anthony.
> 
> The fact that I finished this before the episode went up is a gift. Go me.
> 
> (The fact that I lost all my editing and had to take more time and this posted after the episode went up is so goddamn frustrating but, hey, shit happens hhh)
> 
> Shoutout to my homies. Love y'all. You give me the energy to keep writing.
> 
> Hope yall like this.

That night, the sky above is littered with a myriad of brilliant constellations, the second moon of Faerûn clearly visible. Lark has never given thought to the stars and their positions until now but, here, in this strange land, where his chest feels hollow, it seems unfair how _pretty_ the sky actually is.

Their father is gone. _He ran_. Even after half a dozen Ron Explanations and Darryl tripping over himself to justify why he might have fled, the facts remain the same: their father confronted a powerful enemy alone—or at least as alone as one _can_ be when assisted by Ron—and _fled_ instead of taking the challenge head-on.

He _left_ instead of dealing with it.

(He _left_ _them_ and they’re _alone_ and _scared_ and don’t know _where_ he is or _what_ he’s doing and he _left_ them _he left them **he left them—**_ )

“ _What’s the fucking point?!_ ” Lark howls at the sky. “We’re supposed to be magic, _right_? Me ‘n Sparrow? Magic and strong enough to kill a god but father went and— _he_ —!” The words catch in the hole in his chest. The hole that could be filled with the stars. The hole that _begs_ for reparation. “He’s _supposed_ to be—to be _stronger_ and _older_ and _better_ and _our father—!_ ” He chokes on his next words, eyes red, furious heat tearing across his cheeks. “—he’s _supposed_ to be here for us! Annoying and loud and— _and_ — ** _here_**! Why isn’t he _here_?!”

There is an inherent danger in asking questions to nothing and too freely in the Forgotten Realms. Because, as Lark screams frustration and fear, something deep in the space between worlds smiles and answers.

 **He fled out of fear and desperation** , this voice says. **And you shouldn't hold it against him, birdy.**

Lark is _not_ afraid; why _should_ he be? This voice—even if it _is_ directly in his head, even if it _is_ someone he does not know, even if it _could_ be something malicious—resonates with something inside him. Something angry. Something hungry. Something _hollow_.

" _So?_ " He replies, kicking a rock into a nearby tree. " _I'm_ scared all the time! But _I_ pick up a knife and I _face_ my fear! Why shouldn't _father_ do the same?!" The unspoken remainder echoes between them—Why should _I_ have to be more adult than an _adult_? Why am _I_ expected to be better at dealing with this than someone easily _twice_ my age? _Why_ is the world _unfair_?

 ** _Because_ , birdy**, the voice says—and Lark is filled with the impression that the owner is smiling in a _matronly_ way, not unkind but _amused_ — ** _his_ father hurt _him_ so he sought comfort in the first place he thought of. He went _home_.**

"Why do _you_ care?" He isn't angry at this voice. He doesn't have it in him to be angry at something he doesn't know much about, but if Barry Oak comes within eyesight, _he's not gonna have his teeth for much longer._ "Who even _are_ you? _What_ are you?"

**Those are some _smart_ questions, birdy. I'm caught between planes. Earth and Faerûn. Space and dirt. Life and death. But my name _was_ Hildy, and for what it's worth, I have an offer for you.**

"Sounds fake, but _okay_."

 **Hear me out at least.** Hildy—if that is what this voice's name _actually_ is—sounds more _amused_ than _upset_ by Lark's sharp rejection. **I'm not having you over. Just offering a partnership. _See_ , you and your brother sought out something ancient to fight and that's swell and all, but I can give you the same power it would _without_ the Faustian bindings. You keep your soul, get magic, _maybe_ a neat piece out of the deal, and you give me what I want. Easy as pie.**

Lark's eyes narrow. He doesn't have an idea of where he should be looking to be what other folks considered polite—why would you _want_ to make eye contact unless you planned to initiate combat with them? A foolish social custom—so he opts to stare at the foreign sky and the smattering of stars he and Lark designated "The Penis". Coz, yanno, they kinda look like a dick, but constellations have to be fancy with proper names and all. Title case. Capital- _The_ , capital- _Penis_.

"And what do _you_ want?"

Hildy laughs. **_There_ we go**, they say fondly, **smart questions. It's part of why I sought you out.**

" _Creepy_."

 **I _used_ to be a journalist. Made my trade in information. I just want _more_ of that**. Lark gets the impression that Hildy is shrugging. **Information. Gossip. News. I want to know things and, more than that, I want to take care of _mine_.**

" _What—?_ " Lark starts, then stops, cutting the thought off at the pass. "You'll give me magic for information?"

**No more, no less.**

"And if I _fail_?" Negotiation is something he honed with father. For all the man could be a pushover, it was _much easier_ to backdoor your way into him caving than to brute force it. Lark knows how to push and prod at the Jenga tower of someone's resolve until he gets the answer he wants—or something lesser but _satisfactory_. "You get my soul?"

**_Nah_. Nothing _that_ off. I'll just be _real_ steamed and you won't have magic any more. Any boon I'm granting you will be gone and you'll be back to the way things were before. No muss, no fuss.**

Lark closes his eyes and internally tries to suss out what Hildy's deal is. If they can be trusted. _If they're gonna fuck him over._

If he had to quantify his ability to read people, he would say he has a _plus three_ to the act of insight. And if he had to assign an _arbitrary_ number to how well he's doing with Hildy specifically, he'd _probably_ say it's a seventeen before the plus three. _A dirty twenty_ , as it might be known. A fairly decent internal vibe check.

Whatever Hildy is—ghost, god, ancient eldritch being, just some unlucky person—they aren't _lying_. Insofar as _Lark_ can tell, everything they've said has been the truth. He isn't in danger.

He grimaces. "What _kind_ of magic?"

**Whatever floats your boat, birdy. Pick and choose.**

"And I can quit _whenever_?"

**No period of service. Everything is at will from _both_ ends.**

"How would I talk to you to negotiate further terms?"

He feels Hildy's smile widen. **Just scream at the stars. I've got nothing better to do than to hang out and listen.**

He rolls the thought around in his mouth. He's _mostly_ made up his mind at this point— _of course_ he wants magic, but that would just be another rift between him and Sparrow, one more thing that makes them _different_ —but the trick to a good negotiation is to push the time to see if they sweat and break first.

Magic. _Maybe_ a way to find their father. _Definitely_ a way to defend himself—more than the sharpened sticks and pittances Darryl and Glenn afford him—and something he could make _his_. Something similar to what father is capable of but _different,_ because if Barry Oak gets his hands on Lark or Sparrow, _he'd magic the blood out of his body_ , relationship be _damned_. A tempting offer.

Hildy doesn't break, though. Just remains silently patient and Lark thinks maybe trying to outlast something that _might_ have been around for all of time was a bad idea.

" _Alright_ ," he says, nodding his head up at the sky. "I'll take it."

 ** _Aces,_** Hildy says. For an instant, Lark can see the glittering outline of a woman who looks like she might be related to him. She's got a camera around her neck and a wide, almost manic smile and starlight drips from her wrists like blood, floating up into a borealis of brilliant colors. This constellation of a person grabs his hand and shakes it eagerly. The sensation and movement is real and she notes the way his eyes catch hers in warning. **Pleasure doing business with you, birdy. I'll be seeing you.**

The image fades back into darkness and space again, an afterimage stygian against his eyelids. Smiling—familiar, familial, _feral_ —and eyes comforting and piteous in the same moment. It makes his heart hurt.

 **And if you need _anything_ ,** she adds, **just _ask_. I can't look everywhere, but I can damn well _try_.**

He nods, words failing him for the moment. All the anger has left his limbs, replaced with shock and the bright buzz of excitement and maybe _magic_? But, regardless of the feelings in his fingers, Hildy's presence is gone in seconds and Lark is left alone with questions, his thoughts, and a switchblade he didn't have before.

It's got a mother of pearl handle and a blade like moonlight, the handle engraved with " _Be Prepared_ " in a jagged hand. It feels like it's _meant_ to be in his hand, grip perfect for him and _him alone._

With this he can find his father. With this—and Hildy—he can make this _better_.

He won't have to rely on adults who can't seem to take care of themselves. He won't have to sit around with Sparrow and complain about the world. Now he can change it for himself. Bend the world to his will.

Lark grins and slips the blade into his pocket. _Sure_ , he doesn't feel _much_ better than before, but he feels less _helpless_.

Barry Oaks, watch out, Lark and Sparrow are coming for you and _your kneecaps are forfeit_.

* * *

Hen’s dreams are _always_ strange. Spaces between spaces, places between places, and he never knows how to feel when he wakes up, groggy and uncertain. It’s like swimming in a bog, slow and sticky, bubbling as he gasps for air and anchor.

Bar said it’s because his is the circle of Dreams. That he is the bridge between this generation and the one Before. The bridge between one side of reality and the other.

This dream made him _sad_ for some reason. In his head, the Voice Behind the Door screams and slams their fists, rattling the frame, panicked. He wakes with tears soaking the cushion of the nest-chair and his claws cutting into the fine fabric. A rippling fear sends sparks of Mending through and the chair is whole, though damp. Right. Right. He’s Safe. He’s Home.

_Breathe._

Mercedes is—she _said_ she would be _right here_. Had to make a call. She _said_ —she said _she_ —

His ears twitch and he can hear Mercedes, outside. The tension in his shoulders releases and he exhales—when was he holding his breath?—she’s safe. _She’s safe._

( _He’s_ safe.)

There are...two other voices—two other heartbeats, two other sets of feet, the jangle of loose metal, a slamming noise that sets his teeth on edge—with Mercedes. As soon as Hen clocks that, a shiver of fear runs through him. People. _Other people._

**_Danger._ **

The Voice Behind the Door says _hide!_ —a sentiment echoed in the springing panic in his limbs—but the magic here is too far and he could never figure out how to hide ashes in his clothes and _and **and**_ —

Hen panics, grabbing for anything to help. _Any_ form of clarity. _Anything_ to hide, to curl into a ball, to make sure whoever was with Mercedes didn't see him! And in his panic, he Wildshapes.

(Hen is younger, a child, and he knows Bar is looking for him. He didn't do anything wrong—he's a good boy! he follows all the rules!—but he knows, more than he knows the sound of the wind and the feel of the rain, that Bar will be Disappointed if he finds Hen. So Hen Wildshapes and _hides_ or he Wildshapes and _runs_ or he Wildshapes and _flies_ and, certainly Bar finds him _eventually_ , or he's home in Oakvale, _waiting_ , more Disappointed than before, but for a _moment_ he's safe and free and Hen can breathe without being told How to Breathe.)

(So Hen, even as a child, watches animals to learn how to be them so that, when Bar is Disappointed, when he can't breathe for the walls of Oakvale crushing him in, when he needs to be Alone, he can be any animal he wants and, for an hour at least, he can be free in the cage of something else's shape.)

He picks the wrong animal.

Hen doesn't know what kind of animals are around here— _coyotes and raccoons and possums and songbirds_ , the Voice howls, panicked—but his first instinct is something that can defend itself—and Mercedes—and can easily flee if things go south.

( _Don't leave her_ , the Voice clamors, and Hen agrees but Just In Case...)

He turns into a cougar.

They're not _terribly_ big, true, but the wicker and cushion chair Hen is in isn't meant to go from supporting a hundred plus pounds of broomstick elf to almost two hundred pounds of dense mountain lion in no time at all. It splinters and that sends Hen tumbling into a table, knocking over something else. The room easily becomes a cacophony of crashes and Hen presses himself against the ground, his ears flat and his tail bristled and low.

Around the ringing in his ears, the buzzing in his brain, the alarms saying You Have Done Wrong, and a hammering at the Door in his head, Hen hears the door open and Mercedes exclaim, " ** _That's enough!_** " The sharp intonation of her voice shocks him into stillness and he meets her eyes, slow blinks— _I love you, even if I don't know **why** I love you_—and slowly stands upright again. Forces his tail still. Forces his body to Be Calm for her.

" **Sorry** ," he says in Animal, the Wrong Language choking him for a second. _He endures._ Secret. Safety. He can handle the discomfort.

Behind Mercedes, a tall woman in a sharp outfit—dark charcoal and crisp white, sharp angles and pressed folds, shoes shining black and pointed—brandishes something round and black that smells like fire in his direction, her eyes wild. She looks back and forth between Mercedes and Hen, the strong stench of terror overwhelming Hen's sensitive cougar nose. " _Why the **fuck** is there a **cougar** in your house?_" Her words are low, likely meant to not startle him. Unfortunately for her, a cougar's hearing is sharp and the sibilance is deafening. He unintentionally lets out a warning growl and she clenches the thing in her hand with white knuckles, mouth drawn in a mask of fury and bravery.

" _That's no cougar_ ," Mercedes explains, calmly. Behind the other woman is a third—the third voice from outside—who waits with far more relaxed posture than the first woman. Mercedes continues, maintaining eye contact, " _that's my **husband**._"

Husband is a word that knocks the breath out of Hen. It means _bond_. It means _love_. It explains why he _had_ to find her, why she called stronger than Oakvale, why he felt Safe with her. He is her husband. She is his wife. A _staggering_ revelation.

He almost Wildshapes back with that knowledge but the first woman brandishes the object in her hand again—is that a weapon? _It's a weapon!_ —and Hen steps between her and Mercedes, hackles raised and tail twitching dangerously. " **Step back** ," he says in Animal, throat closing further. If he keeps this up, breathing will be hard. He maybe only has two words left before he needs to apologize.

He can make that work.

" _What the fuck do you **mean** that's **Henry**?_" The woman hisses through bared teeth. Hen bares his fangs back, snarling a bit, a warning. She tenses, fear screaming in her body language. " _It's a **goddamn** mountain lion!_"

" _Strange to see one so far in town._ " Had she not spoken, Hen would have completely forgotten about the other woman for how well she's erased her presence. She isn't afraid, she isn't speaking much, and she hasn't moved an inch since she came in the front door. She's a person-shaped void in his perception. That's dangerous and _yet_...

It's a _familiar_ absence, her presence—or lack thereof—and instead of riling him up, it is _soothing_.

" ** _Carol_** ," Mercedes warns—Hen assumes she is speaking to the afraid one, he recognizes that name from earlier—" _put down the pepper spray and listen. **Please**. You're **scaring** him._"

" ** _Him?_** " Carol squeaks.

" _ **Yes**. He probably thinks you're going to hurt me. But you aren't, **are you?**_ " Her voice is steady and slow behind Hen and he loves the way it reverberates in his chest. Like a heartbeat. _Clarity_.

Carol's whole body tenses and her eyes look at Mercedes, then at Hen, hands shakily grasping the hot-smelling object like a lifeline. Then she sighs and lowers it. " _No_ ," she says through gritted teeth, " _I'm not going to hurt you._ "

" ** _See?_** " Mercedes says. Hen feels her place her hand between his shoulders and presses into her touch. " _ **You're** safe. **I'm** safe. Calm down, my lion, and come back. I can explain **everything** , okay? Just... **come back**._"

Behind Carol, the third woman watches with wide and excited eyes, still a void in Hen's perception unless he's looking for her. The fear rolling off of Carol is less, though it spikes when Mercedes touched him. _Hm_. She's concerned _for_ Mercedes.

And if Mercedes says it's safe then...

Hen Wildshapes back. It _does_ mean that he's sitting awkwardly on the floor, crouched on the balls of his feet, hands curled into claws to try and keep traction on the wooden floor, but it does seem to relieve Mercedes. It spooks Carol though.

" _What the **fuck**?_"

"Apologies," Hen croaks, throat letting up now that he's proven penitence. "I got scared. You were _gone_."

" _Oh he **is** speaking a completely different language!_" The third woman notes. She sounds _delighted_ by this, seemingly nonplussed by the sequence of events she's been witness to.

 _Typical_ , the Voice says, and Hen is confused by the amusement it brings him.

" _You didn't say he could turn into animals_ ," Carol hisses at Mercedes, as if Hen can't hear her.

" _I didn't know he **could**. This is **new**._" Mercedes says. She rocks on her heels and stands up, offering Hen a hand. " _I think you coming over just startled him._ "

He takes her hand and helps himself up, ears down submissive. Behind him, Carol scoffs. " _ **I** startled **him?** He was, I **reiterate** , a goddamn **mountain lion.**_ " Mercedes's hand tenses in his and a flash of frustrated pain crosses her face. His ears pin back in irritation.

"Leave her _alone_ , Carol" He butchers her name in Druidic but it doesn't matter. He _hates_ being treated like he isn't there. And he hates, more than that, that she's upsetting Mercedes.

Carol shuts up and, behind her, the third woman lets out a soft noise of interest. Mercedes just sighs and gestures to them. " _ **Henry** , this is Carol Wilson and Samantha Stampler-Harker. Carol is Darryl's wife and Samantha is Ron's wife. They wanted to help me. That's why they're here._"

Carol tenses and won't meet his gaze but something in Hen makes him stick his hand out to her, "Hen Ri'Oak. A _pleasure_." She chokes on her breath for a second, staring at his outstretched hand and then back up at her face. There is no fear in her face, just sorrow.

She doesn't take his hand. It's _fine_. He turns his attention to Samantha, who is observing him quietly, head tilted sideways a little.

(Soft, owlish, panicked.)

Hen remembers Ron and tries to picture her next to him. They're about the same size, about the same shape, soft around the edges, but her smile is wonder and his is performance at best, anxiety at worst.

(He only saw Ron for such a short while; how _does_ he know this about him?)

" _Pleased to meet you again, Henry. We met at the PTA meeting last autumn. You thanked me for the lemon bar recipe. I told you I just got them off of Google but you thanked me again for being **honest**._" Samantha winks and Hen doesn't know how to respond to that.

He opts for a simple bow, ears neutral-back, and a smile. "A _pleasure_ , Samantha." Like Carol, he butchers her name. _Unlike_ Carol, whose name he gleefully mangled, he _feels bad_ about having to choke out a subpar version of Samantha's name.

( _Don't be like this_ , the Voice chides, and Hen bristles. _They're just **worried** for Mercedes._)

( _So am I_ , he snaps back, shouldering the Door closed again.)

" _What kind of language do you think he's speaking?_ " Samantha asks Carol, who frowns. Before she can respond, Mercedes interrupts.

" _I can answer that, actually, but why don't we head to the dining room? Better seats. Less...,_ " her eyes wander to the splintered remains of the chair, " ** _detritus_**."

" _Ah_ , apologies. Let me fix that for you," Hen darts to the chair and Mends it, the pieces slotting back into place. He turns and Mends the table and the vase he had shattered when he knocked into the table and offers Mercedes a shaky smile. His ears are tilted, shaking slightly, and his breath is catching in his chest. Magic takes so much here, even cantrips, and it takes a lot more energy than he would like to simply fix his mistakes.

Carol's face is that of confusion and surprise. Samantha is smiling like a young child, full of wonder. Mercedes has a soft smile-that-is-not-a-smile on again, her eyes searching Hen up and down for...something.

"Is that... _better_? Fixing it?" Hen tilts his head sideways.

" _Th-thank you_ ," Mercedes finally says. The words send a hum of contentment through him and he smiles, wide. " _Now...the dining room?_ "

" _I'll get us something to drink_ ," Samantha says. She snags Carol by the elbow—almost _dragging_ the taller woman with her—and nods her head. " _Carol will **help**._"

" _Glasses are on the top shelf!_ " Mercedes calls out. " _Ice is in the trays!_ "

" ** _Thank you!_** " And they disappear into the other room. Hen hears the sound of the cold box, high and whining, and his ears involuntarily twitch.

" _Henry?_ " Mercedes calls his attention back to her. Her smile is... _more_. More _what_ , he can't say, but it _is_ more. " _I was wondering...while I catch Samantha and Carol up on what happened, would you mind going to get some cucumbers from the garden out back? I can wash them up so we have a snack while we talk. Nothing says enjoyable summertime snack like a crisp cucumber, **hm**?_"

There is something there, _insincere_ , in her voice and her face. She's sad, _yes_ , and worried and tense. There are tear tracks on her face and she looks a little dehydrated. She isn't smiling with her eyes. She isn't telling the whole truth.

It _hurts_ but...doing what she asks is Good and he doesn't want to be Rude. He may have already been Rude to Carol, though there's been no sign of punishment yet, so maybe she is Disappointed in him.

The fear of her being Disappointed curdles his gut.

Hen nods and pastes a smile on his face in reply. "Okay. I will go get what you have requested." He wonders if his ears are giving him away, like they always do.

If Mercedes can read his traitorous ears, she makes no indication. Instead she smiles more sincerely and presses a soft kiss to his forehead. She smells of mint and clover and spices he doesn't have a name for. She smells like Home. He wants to linger in her scent for a little bit longer. Instead he pulls away, smiles at her, and heads to where she indicated the garden was to get her a cucumber or two.

Whatever a cucumber even _is_.

* * *

Mercedes _hates_ this. She _hates_ having to treat her husband like he's a child. She _hates_ looking at his face and seeing nothing of the man she married. She _hates_ how he leans into her touch like it's sacred, even if he can't articulate _why_ in a way she can understand. She _hates_ seeing him so helpless. She hates _feeling_ so helpless.

She hates seeing him go. She's _terrified_ that'll be the _last_ time she sees him again. That _this_ is the future their husbands saw when they buried the three of them as mummies. It's _monumental_ , this fear that looms over her, insisting that the magic that took him _will take him again_ and he will disappear for good. It's insidious, the fear that worms under her skin and tries to convince her that this isn't her husband, but an _imitation_.

She walks into the kitchen and finds Samantha rubbing small circles into Carol's back, three highball glasses with ice water in them resting on coasters. Carol looks up at her, hand straying to her pepper spray until she clocks who it is. Then she slackens, looking almost defeated.

Samantha nods at her, understanding. "One of those is yours."

" _Just_ water?" Mercedes asks, sliding into a chair, the weight of the world and this day pressing down on her. She sips at her drink, the cold ice shocking her nerves, chasing the panic away with new sensations.

"You want to _day-drink_ , Oak-Garcia? Because I _know_ where you keep your liquor and I will pour one on the rocks for me and _also_ you." Carol snipes. The hard set of her shoulders and the grit of her teeth is understandable but Mercedes bristles anyway. " _Don't tempt me._ "

" _I—_ "

" _Be nice_ ," Samantha chides, cutting Mercedes off. She slides into the chair next to Mercedes and sips her own water, the calmest of the lot. "Mind telling us the whole story? Because that _really_ looks like a lot and you seem to be doing poorly."

" _Mmm_ ," Mercedes doesn't deign to answer her. The silence is enough anyway. She revels in the feeling of ice against her skin. The shock and difference and near-pain of the temperature change is a welcome distraction and an old stomping ground of hers. A tried and true method. She sighs, heavy.

" _So_ ," Carol says, after a moment of drinking her own water. The word lingers over the table for a moment before she continues, "Henry?"

The million dollar question.

"Well," she begins, "I tried to call Henry's phone but it's dead. Same with Ron's. But I left Darryl a voicemail—"

"He'll call back quickly," Carol interjects. "At least, he did when _I_...did."

Mercedes nods, thankful for the assurance. "Then Lark and Sparrow picked up." She gathers her thoughts. "They were... _not_ doing well."

"I would assume." Samantha nods.

" _Apparently_ —for _them_ at least—it's been about a _week_ since Henry disappeared on their end. They said that _his_ father, _Barry_ , did something to him but _that shouldn't be possible_. Henry said he hasn't seen Barry since he was in his twenties. _I've_ never met the man myself, but he must've been around the same age as my _papá_ so he shouldn't be around, _should_ he?" Her hands are shaking. The ice in her glass rattles a warning to everyone there and she can see Samantha shift, ready to stand and attend to her needs.

"They...didn't say who was there with them. The kids, _sure_ , but their fathers?" Carol drums her fingers against the table. "I couldn't tell you."

"So it's _feasible_? That their _deceased_ fathers— _our fathers-in-law_ —are there? That - that Barry _did_ something to him, _to Henry_? That they're—?" The words knot themselves around Mercedes's tongue and she chokes—rage, frustration, confusion, desperation—stammering out a question she isn't certain she wants the answer to. She doesn't even notice Samantha until she's at her elbow, gently slipping patting her arm.

" _Henry?_ " Carol presses. It's an anchor against the terror and emotions that are pushing at her walls. "The twins; what _else_ did they say?"

"He...they didn't seem surprised he looked like... _this_. _Expected_ it, really. Said that the commune he came from _all_ looked like that. That they wouldn't put it past his father to send a double and asked if he had any identifying marks _but_...when I said that he knew me, that he knew my name? They said it _had_ to be him." She chokes out a stuttering laugh. "Forgot to check his tattoo. That would...that would do it, probably."

"Wait, like... _that_? A whole group of people who—?"

"Our children and husbands have been _kidnapped_. Magic is _real_. You'll believe in time travel and alternate futures, but _elves_ are too much for you?" It's biting. She shouldn't be attacking Carol like this but—

"So your boys were _also_ worried that he might be someone else?" Samantha cuts her off. Carol rolls her eyes but Mercedes focuses on the water dripping down the glass, the numbness in her fingertips, the rush of her blood in her ears.

"They said Barry does, and I quote, " _mind stuff_ ". And here's the weird thing?" The thread slips away again but it's been so much in so little time. She's allowed to spiral. " _I can't_ —Henry is hard to understand. I don't remember _much_ of the language he's speaking because Lark and Sparrow...I thought it was some kind of twin speak thing, so I let them have it, _right_? But I know some words here and there and Henry said Barry's name. Or he said it like... _Bar Ri'Oak_? Which _may_ be how they say it in that language but...it sounded like he was _apologizing to me_ when he said it. Like—" the words are water droplets. Larger ones consume smaller ones, chasing remnants and trails of thoughts that should be left well enough alone. She loses that momentum and stares at her glass.

"So there's a language barrier?" Carol asks. Mercedes can only nod. "Okay. I can _probably_ help with that. I'm certain there's books on communication like this."

" _Thank you_ ," she says. Carol just smiles and knocks back the rest of her water.

Samantha pats Mercedes on the arm twice, drawing her attention. "I don't know if it's an issue but I _can_ look into memory loss? Maybe the trauma he's experienced has caused him to close off parts of his brain. If we help heal those pathways, we can make progress to getting your husband back."

 _Back_. Like the man who's out in the garden _isn't_ her husband, just a shade. A pale imitation.

( _He is_ , but that isn't the point. The point is _that's her husband_ and he _needs_ her and she needs him to _be okay_ and she can't keep pretending but she can't let it go **_and she_** —)

" _Point being_ ," Samantha continues, "if you need it, I can _also_ take time off to keep an eye on Henry so you can get a break and go back to work."

"Caretaker burnout is an issue," Carol agrees, her countenance grim again. " _I_...Darryl had that issue when his...but the fact remains. We can take turns. Did your boys say anything about contact? There seemed to be a time differential between us and them by a large margin in their favor."

"They said—well, I _told_ them to—they're going to call me when they have any more information. I told them to leave a message if I don't pick up, but that I'd be willing to answer no matter the time."

Carol nods. "Next time they call, tell them to call my or Samantha's phones as well. Keep them updated as to what we're doing."

"It'll help relieve their tension." Samantha sits back down and starts sipping her water. It's room temperature, the warm California summer having melted the ice. She doesn't seem to mind, however.

"And communication is best for working on time sensitive projects like this. If an hour over here is _almost a week_ on their end, _who knows_ what kind of time limit we're working on."

" _Fuck_." Carol is right. Time makes _everything_ difficult. But it _does_ help having them offering to assist with Henry. "But _yes_ , thank you. I'll make sure to pass your numbers to the boys. _Thank you_."

"You'd do the same," Carol waves her hand dismissively. Mercedes likes to think she's pretty perceptive and intuitive and, because of that, she's _pretty_ certain Carol is both telling the truth and deflecting. Either way, Mercedes is grateful.

She _needs_ this right now. _So much_ is changing _so fast_ and, with Henry the way he is, she **_can't_** —

_Oh... **Henry.**_

She stands up, nearly throwing her chair back, and scrambles to the back door. He's been outside for _so long_. What if someone _saw_ him? What if something _happened_? What if he went back to wherever their boys are? What if— _what if— **what if—?!**_

The back door slams into the wall—the doorstop has been missing for _years_ ever since little Lark took it off and ate it, resulting in a trip to the emergency room that had Henry panic-crying and herself dealing with an anxious Sparrow, who missed his brother—and she tears into the back yard, towards the garden. As she reaches the middle of the plot dedicated to food, her heart in her throat, she skids to a halt.

 _He's right there._ Henry; he's _safe_ and _still here_. Knees in the dirt, sitting in front of the tomatoes, _Henry is still around_.

He didn't leave. He wasn't taken. **_He's still here._**

" _Henry?_ " She calls. Her voice rings out in the empty air and she feels a shiver crawl up her spine. He's hunched over, his strange elf ears flat against his head, shaking near-imperceptively. When she approaches him again and calls out, his shoulders meet the lower part of his jaw, his ears changing angle from something softer to a tight tilt. "Henry, are you okay? It's been a long while and I was getting worried."

He says _something_ in that lyrical language he uses, his ears lifting and tilting but his body remaining closed off. She catches the word he's been repeating a lot and something that sounds like his name but...like Barry, he puts a stop in it in a strange place. _Hen Ri'Oak._

She takes a step closer. " _Henry?_ C'mon now. We need to go inside. Get you something to drink. Some water." Her hand touches his shoulder and he flinches, finally turning to look at her.

"Oh, _Henry_." He'd been crying.

She sweeps him up in another hug and presses a kiss to the top of his head. "Come along," she urges, "let's go inside, _okay_? Don't worry about the cucumber. No need to cry."

But he doesn't budge, so she holds him there, in the garden, and waits. Waits for this to pass. For this to be a bad dream. To wake up in bed next to her human husband with their beautiful boys doing something devious that they'll find later in the day.

She'll wait as long as it takes. Anything for her _león_. **_Anything_**.

* * *

Hen isn't _dumb_. _It's fine_. Mercedes needed time alone with Carol and Samantha and she was Disappointed in him. So she gave him a useless task to busy him and sent him off so he wouldn't get into trouble. Bar _always_ did that. It was one of the few times Hen got to just relax.

Right now it _isn't_ relaxing. With Bar, it's easy to understand. He's _always_ Disappointed in Hen. Hen is Bad and Wrong and can never Do Right or Be Right. So a useless task is time for Bar to _not_ be Disappointed.

But Mercedes being Disappointed makes him feel sick. Like he's going to puke or pass out or _worse_. He has to take a second to put his head between his knees and breathe, slowly.

When the nausea fades, he stands up and sighs. Then he looks around.

He could smell some of this greenery from the front of the house but, now that he's back here, the wide amount of variety going on is _staggering_. It leaves him breathless.

There are bright flowers of all shapes and sizes growing in patches that aren't perfectly symmetrical. The ground leading through the many raised garden boxes is worn down, the grass a patchy yellow where it's growing at all. After the flowers—rife with bees and other insects singing their working songs—are vegetables and fruits the likes of which he's never seen. Some of them—tomatoes, a green pepper he remembers loving, a plant that looks like the pepper but not spicy—he knows. _Others_ —two different strange cylindrical green fruits, a white-purple blob, a purple leafy green—are _completely_ foreign.

It strikes then that he doesn't know what a cucumber is. Or what it looks like. Or how many Mercedes even wanted.

 _Hm_. That's an issue.

After all the cantrips he did, the feeling of magic is sluggish and dry but...he _could_ , if he was willing to be a _little_ uncomfortable. And Speak with Plants doesn't have a material component either. He can just cast it.

Hen closes his eyes and breathes. He Breathes. The magic in the ground—muddied and distant and screaming for attention—reaches up to him and he uses his fingers to paint the Druidic symbol for listening in the air. "Plants," he says, "speak to me." And the plants speak.

The flowers closest to him are elated to have someone to talk to. The instant he turns his attention to them, they turn their blossoms to face him. " **Oh?** " They say in voices like birdsong. " **I was going to say ' _welcome back_ ' but you aren't who I thought you were. _Hello_!**"

" _Hello?_ " Hen tilts his head, ears crooked and confused. "What do you mean by that?"

" **You look so much like him, is all.** " The flowers wave back and forth in a dismissive gesture. " **But also _not_.**"

" _Who_ do I look like, if you don't mind? I hate to have woken you up just to ask questions about myself, but this is _interesting_." Hen is being Polite. The magic he did drained him but being Polite is a Rule and he knows—or, rather, he Knows—breaking a Rule isn't Good. So even if his tired and weary and frustrated brain is sluggishly trying to make sense of things, he can't afford to be Rude.

" **The man who takes care of us with the nice lady. The one who planted us and makes sure we have good soil and water.** "

Hen frowns, ears cocked a bit. "Do you serve a _purpose_? Are you _medicinal_?"

" **Not to _our_ knowledge**," the flowers say. " **We just look and smell nice and the bees like us. The man says we bring color to the yard. He _likes_ color.**" There is a pause before they continue. " **You really _do_ look like him, you know.**"

"I _don't_ know, but thank you for your knowledge. Do you know what a _cucumber_ is? I've been tasked to find one by Mercedes." He chokes on her name but... _no_. He won't _not_ say it.

" **It's a _vegetable_ , we think**," the flowers bob their blooms in the direction away from the house. " **Try over there. And _do_ tell the tomatoes we like their vine structure. The bees _said_ they would but we haven't heard back.**"

"I will try," Hen nods and makes his way in the direction they indicated, the spell moving with him. The flowers' words echo in his head. _Especially_ the part about him—the man who looks like but _not_ like Hen—taking care of the flowers, _not_ because they had a value or use, but because they _looked nice_.

 _He's right_ , Hen decides. _Their colors are pretty and they're good to look at._

The tomatoes are on the way to the farthest gardening box indicated by the flowers. As they come into range of his spell, Hen calls out, hand cupped around his mouth to amplify the sound.

" _Hello_ , tomatoes. Hen Ri'Oak, a _pleasure_. I have a message from the flowers in that direction." Hen indicates the way he came. "They say your vines are lovely. Or, rather, that they like your vine structure."

" _ **Oh**_ ," the tomatoes rustle, embarrassed, " **th-that's _very_ kind of them. We appreciate that, _thank you_.**"

"It's no trouble." Hen ducks his head. "But also, if I _may_ bother you for some information?"

The tomatoes wave a few leaves, indicating that, _yes_ , he _can_. Their vines curl close to the stakes that are supporting their growth. While they're willing to talk, they are more shy than the flowers.

" _Thank you,_ " Hen says. He thinks about what it is he'd _really_ like to know. "First: do you know what a _cucumber_ is? I've been asked to retrieve a few and I don't have _any_ idea what I'm looking for."

" _ **Oh!**_ " The tomatoes indicate the direction he has been walking in with some of their vines. " **Keep going this way. A cucumber is long and green and also on a vine system. They're rather nice, actually. Good conversationalist, when we overlap. We miss talking to them.** "

"Thank you." Hen ducks his head, _genuinely_ thankful. That narrows what he's looking for by a wide margin. Green and long are maybe three other plants ahead of him. On a vine system eliminates all but two of them. That's good.

" **Anything else we can help you with?** " The tomatoes ask. " **You said _first_ so...forgive us for assuming you had more questions.**"

"Don't worry," Hen reassures the plant, "I _do_ have another question." The tomatoes unfurl a bit, relaxing. "I was wondering if you had any information about the people who keep this garden? I know _she_ does but...the flowers mentioned _someone else_?"

" _ **Oh!**_ " The tomatoes bob slightly, nodding almost. " **I know them! _Yes!_ The woman inside helps keep us but the person who does the most work _actually_ looks a lot like _you_.**"

A sinking pit in his chest opens up. Hen schools his smile into something neutral or maybe even placid, but his ears flick downward and betray the mask he's trying to wear. "That's what the flowers said."

" **They're _correct_ ,**" the tomatoes agree, vines curling and unfurling in waves, a nervous tic. " **Short of your ears, you could be his double**."

"What's this man like?" Hen pushes.

" **Oh he's _so nice_. When there was an issue with insects, he _patiently_ found a way to be rid of them without nasty chemicals. When one of the tubers got sick and died, he carefully uprooted them and apologized the whole time. Sometimes he sings while he works.**" With every word the plants say, the pit in Hen's chest deepens, the roiling nausea threatening to consume everything in him. But he smiles on, calm, his ears the only indication of his emotions. " **And he takes _such_ good care of his wife and children too.**"

Hen's ears perk up. " _Wife?_ "

 _Mercedes_ , his heart sings. The Voice Behind the Door echoes the sentiment, muffled but heartfelt.

" **The lady inside? She brings him water and helps him take care of us but we remember one time it was raining and she fell? He picked her up, covered in mud, and carried her inside. Next time we saw her, she was hurting but smiling and laughing.** " They bob back and forth. " **They laugh _a lot_ together. And their children, while not kind to us, are taken care of as well. Loud, but _happy_.**"

"More than _one_ child?"

" **They look identical but _yes_ , two of them. Energetic. They're a pretty happy family from what we see.**"

Behind the Door, the Voice cries in mourning. Behind the Door radiates a sense of loss and fear. An apology. Hen tamps down on that feeling, slightly irritated by how it washes out his own emotions.

He's _allowed_ to feel what he's feeling. No one else can _make_ him feel things. Not even whoever is behind the Door.

"That's good?" _Is it?_ Or is it _one more_ frustrating, _confusing_ thing to being here. The feeling of Home and _not_ being home. The strange way Mercedes smiles when she looks at him, like she's trying to not cry. The feeling of belonging and _not_.

" ** _Mmhmm_. We hope they're doing well. We heard on the vine that they would be gone for a couple days. We're going to miss his songs.**"

"I hope he returns soon," Hen lies. The hole in his chest screams. "Thank you for your help."

" **You're welcome! Good luck with the cucumbers!** " The tomatoes wave as Hen lets the spell drop. It's too much effort for too little reward and, while he was willing to take the exhaustion for information, the way _this_ information is making him feel is too much.

So like a selfish brat, Hen shuts down.

("I don't understand," Bar says, Disappointed as he looks at Hen, "why you can be _so similar_ to me and _so different_. You have such _potential_ , Hen, and yet you _waste_ it on things like... _this_." He gestures at the mobiles Hen made out of stones and bright glass, held together with vines and twigs. "This is hoarding resources. Other beings could make use of what you have here. You're depriving them of these items. And for _what_?")

("They're _pretty_ ," Hen says, ears down. He's young then, _a child_. He doesn't know better. He has yet to learn that when Bar is Disappointed, there is no reason in arguing. "I like the way they look and I thought that—")

(" _Exactly_ ," Bar cuts Hen off, sharp. _Fatherly_. "You _thought_. That is why I am here: to teach you so you don't _have_ to think. Here is a lesson for you," he clenches his hand and the mobiles Hen worked so hard to make rot and crumble to pieces, the stones scattering on the ground. "If it has no functional purpose, it's _selfish_. And we don't _want_ to be selfish, do we?")

("No, father," Hen hangs his head, trying his best to keep the tears from welling forth. Even if he doesn't understand Disappointed, he knows instinctively that crying would not be good.)

(Bar smiles, warm and kind and Pleased, and pats Hen's head. " _Good_ ," he says, "now I _expect_ to see you helping the others with the harvest in five minutes, _understand_?")

("Yes, father." And Bar is gone, leaving Hen alone with his selfish tears and his selfish thoughts and the selfish anger that eats at his insides.)

He isn't certain when he started crying. Was it when he started talking to the tomatoes about the man who takes care of the garden—the man who is not him—or when he stopped? Was it because of the frustration he can't name or place or because he feels _out of place_ , even as Mercedes calls to him as Home? Is it because the tomatoes said the man who takes care of the garden is Mercedes's husband?

Because if he is, then he is not Hen and _she_ thinks he's this man, this _Henry_. Maybe the name—Henry, _bold_ of him to assume it was just Hen Ri'Oak only strange—wasn't _for_ him. Maybe he's a liar, a fake, a _cuckoo_. Is he taking Henry's place with Henry's wife and Henry's home?

When Mercedes looks at him, is she seeing _him_?

Why does that thought hurt as much as it does?

Regardless of the origins of his tears, he cries in the warm summer heat, kneeling in the walkway between garden boxes, the dry grass and soft dirt a cool grounding feeling. He sobs, silently, angrily, and finally lets the pressure off the bubbling feelings that had been building in him. It isn't pretty but it's _helpful_.

And then he hears a sharp cracking noise and Mercedes call out, " ** _Henry?_** " That sets him off again and he bites down on the noises of crying, claws digging into his arms again.

"Apologies," he says, not facing her. "Apologies for thinking that I was him. Apologies for taking his place."

" _Henry, are you okay? It's been a long while and I was getting worried._ " He can feel her shadow cast over him and he hunches further down.

"I'm not _him_ though. I'm Hen Ri'Oak. Not whoever you think I am. I'm taking you from him. Being selfish. Apologies. Apologies. You deserve _better_ than this. Better than _me_."

" _ **Henry?** C'mon now. We need to go inside. Get you something to drink. Some water._" She touches his shoulder with a hand, comforting, and he wants to scream and claw the skin off. He's not worth touching. Not if he's going to take from her like this.

Hen tries to school his ears into a more neutral position but they refuse to cooperate, limp and sad. When he looks up at her, trying to smile somewhat, reassure her, she sighs and his heart sinks. He's hurt her again, hasn't he?

" _Oh, **Henry**._" Pity. She _pities_ him. Still thinks he's Henry and _he's not_. And he _can't tell her otherwise_. He can't tell her that she is _wrong_ , that he's Hen, that he's _not Henry._

He just selfishly lets her sweep him into a warm hug and sinks deep into the smell of mint and clover and spices and Home. She kisses his head and he shakes and cries harder. He doesn't deserve this. _He doesn't deserve this. **He doesn't deserve this.**_

Liar. Fake. Thief.

" _Come along_ ," her voice is low and comforting, a cat's purr against his collarbone, " _let's go inside, **okay**? Don't worry about the cucumber. No need to cry._"

"Apo—" he tries to say but the tears stop him and he just goes limp. And she just holds him, her head resting on his, her arms wrapped around him.

And the selfish part of Hen—the _only_ part, it seems—lets her. He basks in her attention. He eats up _all_ of her love.

Because Henry is who she wants but Hen is here and if _she_ thinks he's Henry, then it would be cruel to tell her otherwise.

Even if it's killing him.

Behind the Door, the Voice protests, but Hen pays it no mind.


End file.
